Power chords ran through his veins like demented gerbils psyched out on pharmaceuticals running through an infinite loop of tunnels encased in a glass cage. He could feel the dissonance of the guitar solo inching up his spine, and it was only 7:30, several hours before the show would even start. These were feelings drawn by expectations, already bobbing his head up and down amidst the rhythmless soundtrack of street noise. It would do for now. He knew the songs well enough that he didn't need musical accompaniment to get amped up. Instead, he needed only silence ... his mind would provide the rest.
Of course, now was not the time for premature headbanging. Now was a time for action.
"Where is it?"
"I'm not sure. I've never been before."
"Queen City Tattoo, right?"
"Queen City Hall."
"Well, there's a Queen City Tattoo. Maybe, that's it."
"Let me ask someone."
Who to ask? He couldn't be sure which of the people around could speak English or which might attempt to stab him. Come now, don't be racist. Could a black man be racist? ...he felt racist even posing the question.
"I'll just go check out the tattoo place."
"Let me just ask someone."
Him? No, too dirty ... her? She looks dressed for a punk show ...
"Found it," there's a silence, "I told you so."
|Photo Courtesy of Dallas Distortion Music|
This was not a time for social anxiety, for an acute sense of self-awareness. No, this was a time to shed one's neurosis and let the drive of the rhythm section move you. He was moved ... there was movement ... he could still feel it on the ride home, the ringing in his ears. He'd invest in ear plugs if he weren't so adamantly opposed to a purchase so unpunk, choosing--from here on out--to living as punk a life as possible.
On the way home, he ran a stop sign. Baby steps.
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